Here it is, the first chapter of my second book!
Earlier than I had expected.

First off, some warnings. This fic is M-rated for a reason.
(as I'm sure those who've read the first book knows.)

Throughout the book, there will be:

- Blood and gore -
- Graphic Violence -
- Trauma -
- Death -
- Playing of the heart-strings -

And more similar things.
Sexual content is pretty much the only thing I won't touch, however, rape will be implied in this book. (Nothing graphical.)

If you can't stand these things, then this fic isn't for you.

Feel like commenting?
Greate! I love reading comments!
I really, really do!
And since I constantly seek to improve, I am always open to con-crit.
So if you notice repeating grammatical mistakes or simply feel there are things I can do better, don't be afraid to let me know.
You can even PM me if you don't want it to show up as a Review.
(I have very thick, Finnish, skin.)

Don't feel like reading my first book?
This is a new arc, so there's really no need for it in order to understand this book. I think you can still enjoy it.

But I still recommend you do read the first one as it has many strong events that will go with the MC throughout my series.
And it'll definitely help you understand the motives and personality of the MC.

That said, enjoy!

Riften

A city locked in eternal autumn. Tall buildings of dark, wet, birch atop streets of moist coble-stone.

How befitting, that the Rift was locked in eternal autumn, the very season nature itself decided to die. For if winter ever reached this place? There'd be nothing left but frozen corpses atop dead timber.

This is where people came when they had nothing left to lose: passers-by or losers. The cesspool of skum that Skyrim had to offer. The beds were cheap because it wasn't the rotten bed you paid for, every bed came with a woman: she's the one who took your coin. In this city, It took effort, name, or even more coin, to sleep without one.

I knew the city well.

This is the city where blacked-out drunkards decorated the dark alleyways with the company of cats chasing rats by their feet. This is the city where women, hiding knives, feared to walk alone day and night. Where people avoided strangers. The city where threats and bartering were one and the same. The city where kindness was frowned upon and care for others non-existent: everyone for themselves. This is the city where locals either wore colored garments and jewels over fat bellies or rags and dirt over skinny legs and hollow faces.

"A Septim please," they begged, as they had done a thousand times before, brushing away whatever shame they had before them as they reached their bony fingers at you. Offering to pay with their own flesh for a single bite of bread.

The few, fat with coin, walked past them, noses too high to admit they lived within a city of poverty: what we don't see, we don't care to know.

The other… simply ignored them.

It wasn't ill-intended. This was simply the city where kindness either left you with a conned mind or a stolen purse, few could afford either. And even if someone nagged your pocked, the street urchins—abandoned pregnancies given purpose—were more slippery than the lower streets themselves: cracks, sever-pipes, and crevices everywhere.

Ironic, that it held The Temple of Mara—The Temple of Love—when the only love it provided was the export of dark mead and greed for riches. Riches few were lucky, or rather, influential enough to get their hands on. Then again: every Nord loved their mead, in this city, it sold better than the free water from the market well. No surprise.

But ugly as it's inside was, the city was still beautiful: tall buildings of wood above a canal of clear water: birds and temples: resting over a lake made of a mirror—rich with fish—surrounded by lush forests of birch—rich with game—colored in deep fire and clear white sun.

Shame it had such a horrid personality.

Yes. If the city was a fair maiden, then she was a fair maiden of fair skin. Young. Flowers in her hair. Freckles around a button nose, and sparkling green eyes yearning for adventure. Dancing on bare feet in a see-through dress atop soft autumn leaves and dew-green moss. Teasing. Beautiful. Wild. Drunk in her youthful arousal. Drawing the eyes of greedful men, too low in stature to ever meet her yet unable to look away. And the envy of older women, for she reminded them of what they used to be but can never be again.

No wonder the practice of Dibella was strong here.

She drew in all. Gladly reaching her hands for them. But if you ever did choose to grab her hand, and join in her wretched dance of lust, you'd be swallowed by her corruption. Eaten by the sway of her life.

And you wouldn't even realize. Why else would the city guards ignore anything and everything they chose not to see? Allow any crime to pass them by, as long as the culprit left them a share of their exploits? They did so, because, like so many others, they were already dancing in the palm of her hand. A hand, free of judgment. Comforting and safe. Yet void of morale.

This is the city beautifully corrupt with a wast difference in social status. There's no middle-class here, you either lived in three-floored luxury or in the gutter. Nothing here was fair. And the rich liked it that way. Preferred it that way. They couldn't care less if they so had to walk over corpses, as long as the living kept their stores, brewery, fishings, and whatever running. For as long as they did, the rich need not work. Still, they held all the coin and all power. And one name stood atop all: Black-Briar. A name as old, and corrupt, as the city itself.

It answered the question: If this autumn city is a fair maiden dancing, just who do you think is playing the lute?

Had the city always been this rotten, or had it changed over the years? Or was it me that had changed? No longer blinded by emotional comfort finally seeing the city for what it is: rotten through the woodwork down to its soul.

Yellow anger gleaming in the stretching dark. White teeth and gnarl. Burning eyes against black, staring me down. Heavily. Glaring. Resentful. Demanding. Tearing at me with bloody pictures. I could feel them. And fear them.

Ever since Krev, my nightmares returned. As horrid as ever: all pain and sorrow. Guilt and hatred and more guilt: shattered memories of a broken past hiding behind tainted glass. Always showing me nothing, but leaving me feeling everything. A cold suffocating fog pressing against me.

Yet it all dispersed and broke away: escaped to that place where all forgotten things go before it woke me. Woke me screaming out of empty lungs, soaked in a cold sweat with wet blurry eyes. And once awake, panting, staring at the beamed ceiling above me, all that remained was the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears. Her laughter and a sharp pain in my hand. Gnawing through the bones. Felt like it had been stabbed all over again.

Nothing but phantom pain.

For when I lifted my hand in front of me, as I did every morning, all I could see was the ring on my finger and that pale white scar in the center of my palm: the only true reminder of that split minded day. Molded memories in forgotten clay: few of them belonged to me, so he kept them in my dreams and took them back came morning.

Still, I had my scar: the reminder of my vengeance. The proof, that in the end, I had succeeded. Avenged them. And paid the price. Yet no matter how long I looked at it, it brought no comfort, only pain.

But when I lowered my hand, as I did every morning, and let it fall on the necklace around my neck? Let it land on the ring resting on my chest? Her ring. The gnawing soothed. Faded away. It felt warm in my hand as it shushed away the pain. Comforting it with memories of a soft, tender kiss.

But none of that was real, was it? The pain in my hand? The warmth of her ring?

All in my head.

Yes… My ¨Scar of Vengenace.¨ Offering only pain…

Pain that I every day pushed away. Hid behind stubborn anger, hard expressions, and a hollow heart.

Hidden behind flesh, rather than steel.

Who's wearing a mask now?

The Bee and Barb.

Wet stained floor and unlit candles. Cleaned of tables with empty chairs. Shelved wooden plates and hung up mugs.

No one stood behind the bar.

The fireplace was still cold.

Even though the walls, I could hear the morning birds. The early sun creeping in through the cracks of draped, yellow-glassed, windows. But I heard no people, no sounds of the city, and the place was still empty, as it always was when I came down the stairs. Only animals rise as early as I do: yet another touch of irony.

I could wait, but waiting wasn't my strong suit. Our strong suit: even asleep, the thing inside of me grew restless too easy. Besides, it only gave way for thoughts.

I leaned my axe against one of the many tables, placed wolf-head vambraces on it, and moved to wake the fire. First to wake lights the fire: habit of a Companion. The Innkeeper—Keerava—didn't mind: ¨If it means less work for me, do what you want,¨ she had said. And I did. Between contracts, odd jobs and woodchopping paid for my room: throwing out drunkards or beating up troublemakers. This city never ran out of those.

The cold of the Rift never really did creep through the skin of a Nord, especially not one with blood as hot as mine, but I didn't light it for my own sake: the inn held more than one tenant, and as soon as Keerava begins her day she'll need it to serve them breakfast.

Speaking of which, I could already hear her move in the room above: the unmistakable sound of her tail tapping the floor behind her as she walked.

I rose off my knees and left the growing fire to return to my table. Reached for the satchel by my belt and took out the scroll, rolled it out on the table, and sat down.

A different paper each time, still, they all looked the same by now: different words scribbled into the same meaning. Only the signature at the bottom varied. Just one contract before the other. One heavy pouch of cold coin before the next. And the ¨why¨ of it never mattered—Companion neutrality and all that—so they held no reason. No outcome or effect. Just ¨do it¨ and move on. Don't think about it. There's no need to know the bigger picture: eyes on the prey, not the horizon.

Why am I still doing this?

For honor? Because I'm good at it? Because I've done it, lived it, for so long that I no longer know any other life? Because I, sometimes, still enjoy it?

No. I care not for any of those reasons.

How many times has it crossed my mind: to return to Rorikstead, plant seeds in its soil, and watch life grow from the earth until I die an old worn-out farmer, as she had wanted us to? But never found the strength to do so. Because it is what she had wanted.

Why am I still doing this?

Perhaps, because, after everything, I simply do it because I no longer believe these hands to be capable of anything else. Hands so soaked in blood that they no longer possess the right to create life. Nor the ability.

Perhaps I do it because I feel I no longer deserve the life she wanted. And even if I did? How could I possibly have that life without her? Without them?

Again, my hand took to ache. As so many times before, I ignored it as I rubbed the pain away against my thigh, focusing on the paper at hand.

"You're up early," she said with a morning voice as she walked down the stairs and came into the room.

"Funny," I said without taking my eyes of the paper: it was the same dry joke every morning.

"The other's have been complaining," she continued as she made her way to the cooking area by the fire.

I lifted my head as to give her a look, "The others, or you?"

"Oh I don't mind, can't oversleep with you around," she said with her back toward me as she dug through a cabin and placed pots and a wooden ladle on the bench beside her. "I told them that if they think they'll get better sleep at that whorehouse, they're free to go there."

"Hm…" I looked at her over the room: I hadn't expected that, "thanks?… I guess," I said as she turned at me with that Argonian-teeth-showing-grin that in no way looked like a smile.

"So…" she said as she started cleaning her hands on her dirty apron, "...breakfast?"

"Have anything with meat?"

"I have porridge and eggs," she said self-satisfied.

"Porridge and eggs?" Since when did those become remotely close to meat?

"If you wait 'till the market opens I'll have Talen-Jei fetch some fish."

"Then give me eggs," I said, returning my attention to the paper. "Fried, not boiled."

I never ordered anything boiled in this city.

It was easy to forget, with all the close buildings, alleyways, and wooden streets, but half of Riften was built over water, stretching out on Lake Honrich. And because of that, Riften was known for it's many and deep sewers built under the city to keep the place from flooding. And, of course, that's also where the city waste went: morning pots emptied on the streets, spoiled food stomped down drains.

The city-well was built to draw in water from the lake, as well as to collect rainwater, so it'd be clean to drink. But whenever I walked past that thing, my nose strongly told me differently. No wonder mead sold better than water. Besides, if the well drew water from the lake, where do you think the sewers exited? And now that I think of it, from where does the Black-Briar meadery draw their water? Guess it's another of those ¨don't think about it.¨

"You're still looking over that contract?" she asked as she came over with a pitcher and cleaned off my table with a rag before putting it down.

"I'm still waiting for my shield-sibling. We don't work alone."

"Well, when you do decide to get to work, don't forget to pay me when you get paid. You're a week behind on rent."

"I do other works around here," I said, looking up as she turned to walk away.

"That's why you're only one week behind," she sneered over her shoulder as she walked.

Fair enough, I admitted bitterly to myself. I did eat more than most, and no matter how much wood I chopped or how many troublemakers I threw out she could easily charge me way more.

I hated to admit it but I knew she was doing me a favor, she could act as reluctant as she wanted she still did it. I didn't appreciate being pitied, but what other reason was there than pity for the long term Companion waking up from the sound of his own screams every day? At least she didn't make a big deal out of it. I could appreciate that.

A noise drew my attention: footsteps approaching outside the front door. I could hear them before it opened, and sure enough, it opened.

"Welcome to the Bee and Barb, I'll be with you in a minute," Keerava greeted over the room as she worked the stove.

"You?" I said, surprised to see who entered: Njada.

Sword by her hip and a heavy shield on her back she walked over with her usual resting-bitch-face. Her wolf armor followed the same design as Aela's: engraved chest plate, backplate, and rounded plating down the sides of her hips over the double-layered fur-suit. But unlike Aela's, it also had plating on her shoulders and arms. Njada was a shield-maiden, close quarter combat was her thing. And if her shield ever failed her, she needed armor.

But it wasn't the special design, I should know, I helped Eorlund make it.

"Something wrong with that?" she asked sharply with that naturally demeaning attitude of hers as she came up to my table, "You need a shave," she said as a greet and looked at me.

"No," I said, answered her first question as I brushing away my cynicism. "Just surprised to see you as my shield-sibling, I had expected Torvar. You never wanted to work with me before." If she had a reaction, she didn't show it. "Besides, don't you have your own responsibilities as a circle-member? Windhelm?"

"No," she said as she dropped the traveling bag on the floor from over her shoulder and took the seat opposite me, "Their Jarl left for Solitude a while back. So until he returns, I don't have any meetings there."

"Doesn't he have a steward? Another stand-in?"

"Ts. I don't know," she sneered, "That whole city's been feeling off lately. Distracted. All talk behind locked doors. Felt like politics, so I didn't dig into it."

"Hm," I hummed, leaning back in my chair.

"Can I get you anything?" Keerava said as she walked up to the table with two mugs and a plate of fried eggs, placing the plate in front of me.

"I'm fine," Njada answered coldly as she grabbed the pitcher and poured herself a mug of mead, "So…" she said, dismissing Keerava as she turned for me, "what's the contract?"

I slid the paper across the table and watched as she took it. As she read, I poured myself a mug and decided to get to eating.

"Skooma?" she asked while reading, "Investigate… warehouse… arrests?! This isn't Companion work. Isn't this something the city-guards should do? They even know where it is. Why did you take it?"

"I met with the Jarl—Laila Law-Giver—a while back. She told me that whenever they send someone to investigate, the place is empty. But they're sure it's the right place."

"An insider in the court?" she asked, sipping her mead.

"That's politics, not our problem. Anyway, she wanted someone from the outside to check it out. Meaning us."

"Still, ¨investigation,¨ ¨arrests?¨ We're warriors, this isn't for us. Will there even be any fighting?"

"I told her the same…" I said as I cut into my eggs, "…but then she tripled the pay, and all I could think of was Vilkas cursing me for turning her down."

"Tripled? That sounds desperate."

"She's just trying to do good." That's one thing I always felt about the Jarl here: she had a good heart, but whenever she learned of any corruption in the city, it was never anything more than the tip of the iceberg. Almost as if someone intentionally let her on in order to distract her from something else. But again, we don't deal in city-politics—any politics—so: don't think about it.

"Tripled," she repeated quietly to herself, "so what's the pay?"

I answered by throwing a point with my finger at the bottom of the paper.

She whistled as she saw the number, "Okay… Are you coming back to Jorrvaskr after this one?" she suddenly asked, looking up at me as she reached for her mug.

Smalltalk? That's unlike Njada, but I am still eating. "Riften's my responsibility, I don't need to return between contracts," I said as I ate.

She had a reluctant look, yet she continued, "You've been here all winter."

All winter? I looked up, "It's spring already?" Has it really been that long? But then, it's hard to tell the passing of time in a place where the season never changes.

"And the new ones have been asking for you," she continued.

"Why?"

"Because Vilkas's too busy, as always, so Farkas has been trying to train them," she continued with a gesture, "But you know Farkas, a training-dummy would make a better teacher than him."

"So why don't Aela each them? Or you, if your ¨out of work¨ as you say?"

"You think we have the patience for them?" she said annoyed, "no. You're better at that."

I got the point, Aela and Nada alike never had any patience for people with skills they considered ¨beneath¨ theirs. Not like Skjor had.

"That's only because I don't care how bad they are," I said, bringing another piece of egg to my mouth.

"Well, you don't really care about anything anymore, do you?" she finished with a judgemental tone and I looked up at her.

"I'll let that slip," I said coldly, returning to my eggs in silence. Still, I could see her jaw clench in annoyance as she clearly still had something on her mind. Most likely something I didn't want to hear.

"I know why you stay here longer each time," she finally let out after a brief silence, "why you don't want to go back. It's been years, don't you think it's time to—"

"I don't need your sympathies," I interrupted with a glare. I could see where this was going, but still, it felt very unlike Njada, "And since when do you care?"

"Ts," she let out, leaning back with crossed arms, "I don't," she spat. That's more like her. "Your father sent a letter," she said with a dark tone, looking away from me as she—much appreciated—changed the subject.

"My father?" I said, again lifting my head. Ah… that's why I'm still doing this: for my parents. Every septim I manage to send them is a help. It's the only true usefulness I still had. "Did you bring it?" I asked, looking over at her traveling bag.

"No," she said, still looking away with crossed arms, "Vilkas thought—"

"Of course he did," I interrupted once again. Annoyed. It all made sense now, it was ¨Vilkas¨ I had been talking to. Why else would Njada ask of things she usually would never care for? Because Vilkas had asked her too. "Of course he did…" I repeated to myself. Vilkas always was smarter than credited, and he didn't hesitate to use it. For what choice do I now have? If my father sent a letter, and it was waiting for me in Jorvaskr, I had no choice but to return after this one. Vilkas knew me too well. "How's Athis?" I asked, changing the subject to soothe my annoyance.

"He's better," she said, finally looking at me, "Back in training. But still not back to his old self."

"Still? It must be—what?—over half a year?"

"He… broke almost every rib," she said with a confused but slightly insulted look, "Even through his armor. Punctured a lung. Most people would've died."

"I didn't mean to sound insensitive," I said, realizing how I must have sounded. That contract had been brutal. Funny though, how I sometimes forget people don't heal as quickly as I do. Guess that did make me sound insensitive toward other's injuries. "Well, I'm glad he's doing better," I said, returning to finish the last of my eggs. "Let's go," I said as I finished and reached for my vambraces.

The docks. Wet slippery planks beneath our feet. At least this part of the city had awakened: fishermen preparing their nets and boats as they made themselves ready for their morning work: seagulls screaming around hammered-shut barrels and tossed away fish remains, circling above the boats as they waited for them to depart. Someone was hammering somewhere: the lower docks always needed repairs as the lake constantly ate away at the woodwork. The air was thick with the many scents of this place: moist wood, mold, mud, moss, fresh water, fish, rats, sewer steam, sea-grass, reed, and more. There were too many scents to count. Still, I could smell them all.

I rarely came out here, but this is where you truly got reminded that half the city stretched out over the lake: water to the left, right, and front alike. Forward, the lake stretched almost as far as one could see: one or two small islands poking up at the center. A building on one of them.

There was an almost still layer of fog creeping over the lake, slowly rising, colored with a golden hue from the morning sun and untouched by the still wind. With the muddy, reed-covered, shoreline, and the autumn-leafed birches surrounding the sides of the lake, people described the morning view as magical, calming: a view colored with fire, brown, green, and gold. But to me, it felt monochrome: nothing but cold shades of gray.

Strange how the world seems to lose its colors when one no longer cares for its beauty.

But no matter how beautiful people described the morning-docks to be, you knew you were in the wrong part of the city when rats were the ones chasing cats. They were everywhere in the lower docks: rubbing their hands as they sat on poles above water, cleaning their whiskers: climbing ropes or scurrying of platforms if you walked too close: razing the seagulls for tossed away fish. And when you couldn't see them, you could always hear them. Squeaking beneath the planks under your feet. Chewing at ropes, gnawing at wood.

"This should be the place," I said as we stopped in front of one of the many small warehouses built atop a wooden platform.

"You sure?" Njada asked as I took out the contract and eyed it over.

"¨Third warehouse on the southern pier,¨" I read off the paper. But I didn't need to read the paper to be certain: I could smell the sweet, sugary almost raisin-like, smell seeping out from the old wooden building. Aromatic. Had to be skooma. The more big-eyed, over-energic, and loud troublemakers this city held usually came with the same scent. The unpredictable ones.

"It looks abandoned," she said doubtfully, peeking between the cracks of the planked over windows.

"Isn't that the way they'd want it to look? If they're hiding a skooma?"

"Hm," she murmured as she tilted her head left and right, "So… should we knock?"

"What do you think," I said sarcastically as I reached for the door handle.

"No need to be snarky," she mumbled with that bitch-tone of hers as she stepped up beside me.

A sudden whiff of something, my hand stopped: there was something new in the air. I threw a glance down the pier to my left as I held the handle. It was empty, but I had a sudden feeling we were being watched. But then, you always felt watched in this city: its atmosphere of paranoia was infective. Still, I discreetly drew a sniff or two of the dock air. Something behind the other smells? A hint of… vomit? Again, not an unusual smell in this city, but—.

"What are you doing? Open the door," Njada suddenly said impatiently.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled and mentally brushed away the feeling of suspicion as I returned to face forward. "Remember, we're doing arrests. No killing."

"Really?" she snarked out loud, "Thanks for reminding me, I didn't read the contract," she said with sarcastic bite. Internally, I shook my head: this is why I never ask to work with her, she's a bitch. I pulled the handle and the door opened with a creak, I had expected it to be locked.

I had to lean forward as I entered, lest the handle of my axe would hit the lintel. Actually, unlike Njada, I'd have to duck to get in axe or not. Barely had I the time to look around the old warehouse before I heard someone rushing up the set of stairs, shouting:

"We're not open yet!" the voice shouted angrily: a man.

It was a Dunmer, as he came into view: ashen-gray skin and red eyes. He stopped in his steps with a confused look as he obviously didn't recognize us. He quickly eyed us up and down and, judging by his expression, he either recognized Companion armor or decided that two heavily armored visitors were bad news.

"Hello," Njada said in a lighter one than usual as she entered behind me and saw him.

"You're not…" the Dunmer said as he drew a large knife from his belt. He had clearly decided we were trouble. "Sarthis!" he suddenly shouted to, I assume, alarm his college as he came charging for us.

I reached above my shoulder, but Njada briskly stepped in front of me, shield in hand, and watched him approach before she effortlessly blocked his hard swing. She matched the force of his swing and bashed her shield as he struck, forcing his blade to recoil. She quickly drew back her shield and, just as quickly, bashed it forward into his face and he stumbled backward, briefly blinded by the shock of her blow. She wasn't done, she lifted her shield horizontally and punched forward, smashing its edge straight into his face with a loud crack. Like a falling tree, he fell backward and landed hard and unconscious on the floor.

I let go of my axe as it was over. But barely had I the chance to look at him as another Dunmer came running up the stairs in the corner of the room. Sarthis, I assumed.

He stopped and looked in shock at the two of us before he, too, came charging at us with an angry scream and sword held high.

Njada already positioned between us, I watched her walk toward the man as he came charging. As he violently swung down with an enraged scream she skillfully sidestepped him with a pirouette, shield circling around with her motion, and struck him with its edge straight and clean in his neck. Another loud crack and his eyes turned blank as, he too, collapsed unconscious to the floor.

I recognized the move, it was the same one Vilkas had used to knock me out the first time I met him. That was so many years ago.

"Well… that didn't take long," I said, still standing by the door.

"Ts! They were weak," Njada said with a demeaning tone as she looked down at both the men.

"I'll have a look around… you should tie them up," I said and started searching the place.

The upper floor was filled with nothing but dusty boxes, empty barrels, and old fishing nets. Simply put, the things you'd expect to find in a fishing ware-house. Noting of value, definitely no skooma. But I could smell it, it's here somewhere. Most likely where both the men had come from.

The wooden walls were replaced by stone as I walked down the stairs. The stone walls were moist, dripping. But the basement's beneath the water, so it's to be expected. There were three doors, but a sniff of air easily told me which one I was after. Following the scent I entered one of the basement rooms and was met with a stockpile of Skooma and Moon Sugar. Shelves of it. Enough to supply half of Riften. But as I looked around, I saw no alchemy tools. Nothing that said the Skooma wasn't being manufactured here.

The contract was clear: arrest the supplier. But it looks like Sarthis is nothing more than a middle hand: smuggling it into the city and keeping stockpile before it was sold.

I looked through the room, searched the drawers, and found a letter meant for Sarthis.

Sarthis,
Just got in a shipment of Moon Sugar
from Morrowind. We're refining it now,
and the Skooma should be ready by the
time you get to Cragslane Cavern.
Bring the gold or don't show up at all.
Kilnyr.

Cragslane Cavern? Kilnyr?

"All done," Njada said as she came down the stairs and entered the room. "Wow," she reacted as she saw the shelves loaded with Skooma and Moon Sugar, "Lucky Torvar didn't get to join you on this one, he would be sampling the wares already."

I actually chuckled at her jest as I turned to show her the letter.

"So what now?" she asked as she had finished reading it.

"We're not getting paid until we find the supplier, so I guess we're heading for this Cragslane Cavern," I said, scratching my stubble.

"You know where it is?"

"Never heard of it."

"Hm… Maybe the Jarl can help?" Njada said as she tossed the letter on the table.

"It's worth a shot." I answered.

"What about the two men?"

"We'll leave them here—they're not going anywhere—and tell the first guard we see to go fetch them, they'll take care of it." I looked over the shelves and scratched my beard again as a thought hit me, "We should confiscate the Skooma and Moon Sugar, I don't think we should leave it here unsupervised." For some reason, I felt it for the best. I did have the feeling earlier that we were being watched, and the Jarl did suspect an inside man. If we leave it here, it might just be ¨cleaned away¨ before any guards get here. But if that was the case, was it safe to leave the two men here?

Meh, ¨inside man?¨ it's politics. We only need the supplier.

"Sure," Njada said and we started packing the Skooma and Moon Sugar into an old sack we found lying on the floor.

There's that smell again, I thought as we exited the warehouse. Foul. It was stronger this time, closer. Definitely vomit.

"Going to see the Jarl are we?" a raspy voice suddenly said.

Njada hand shot to her sword hilt and she flipped around to see who the voice belonged to. A puke-green Argonian stood leaning against the wall behind the open door, revealing himself as we had closed it.

"Relaax," he said, lifting his hands in front of him, empty palms held toward us. "I mean you no harm." He didn't look hostile but…

I never knew the beauty standards for Argonians, but I had to assume this one was… ugly.

He was wearing old torn and dirty clothes that reeked of vomit, stale mead, and that same sweet scent of skooma. And he had a massive overbite above a weak chin half the size it should be. Big, far apart, eyes with dilated pupils that didn't seem to focus on the same spot, it made eye contact awkward as one of his eyes never met yours. And more disturbingly, they shifted: one second you locked eyes with his left one, only for him to change focus, forcing you to look at his right one, and so on. And he was short for an Argonian, about Njada's length, which wasn't short, but it was short for an Argonian.

"In fact, I think we can help one another," the lizard continued with a wide grin: a row of stinking, sharp, teeth going ear to ear. I could never tell if an Argonian smile was genuine or that of a smirk. But I got a bad feeling as I eyed the lizard up. He didn't seem hostile nor dangerous. But still, he gave off an… disturbing feeling… too much confidence for someone standing before two Companions.

"How so?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well," he started, picking his face of the dried mush in between his scales with thin clawed fingers. "I just happen to believe you need my help to get to Craigslane Cavern…" he said, that overbite smile widening further as he gestured proudly with his hand, "and I just happen to know where it is."

I gave Njada a sideways glance and she slowly took her hand off her sword. "And how do you know that?" I asked.

"Oh, I make it my business to know things, plenty of things…" he said, his tongue slithering in his mouth as he spoke, "It's all useful. I also know the Jarl can't help you." He teased.

"How so?" Njada pitted in.

"Oh," he let out confidently, turning his head to look at Njada, or ¨past¨ Njada, "Believe mee, if the Jarl knew of Craiglane Cavern… she wouldn't have had to hire you guys," he answered with a self-satisfied look.

"And you know where it is?" I asked, discreetly looking around the pier. I saw no one else, nor did I smell anyone, but the whole thing reeked with suspicion: to be approached like this in Riften? It never meant anything good.

"Oooh-yesss," He answered, slithering his tongue between his front teeth as he turned his head at me.

"And I suppose you want payment for telling us?" I saw where this was going, smelled it, nothing came free in this city. If he willingly admitted having something we wanted, we most certainly had something he wanted.

"Oh-yeEes," he, again, hissed satisfied, rubbed his pale hands as he eyed our bag of Skooma and Moon Sugar.

"Of course," I said and gave Njada a look. I held out my hand toward her, ignoring the bitter, reluctant, look she gave. But she folded with a sigh and reached down the bag to pull out two bottles of Skooma and handing them to me.

"Don't play with me!" He suddenly hissed angrily before I had the time to even offer them to him.

It put me on guard as I withdrew my hand: Skooma addicts are unreliable, irrational, unpredictable, and dangerous. The drug makes them quicker than one would believe, like a frantic cat slicing air—a hissing and spitting whirlwind with claws—and they never run out of energy. Not that I'd fear for my life, far from it, but even with my reflexes, the possibility of him clawing out an eye or two before we'd draw weapons wasn't unlikely.

"I want ALL of it!" he hissed again with a crazed look: bulging eyes, hostile teeth showing.

"Are you mad?!" Njada snaped at the lizard.

"Sure, all of it," I said, gesturing for Njada to be quiet. But she wouldn't have it.

"This bag is easily worth at least four times our pay!" she continued.

"Ooh, my apologies," he said with that self-satisfying smile growing back on his face as he looked intensely at me before relaxing and turning his head at Njada, "I didn't know the Companions doubled as skooma-dealers?"

Seems at least he had heard me as he clearly calmed. And I figured out the difference now, it was definitely a grin.

"Ts!" she let out through clenched teeth as she slightly recoiled, "Well, how convenient for you," she said with bile sour bite, clearly beyond pissed.

"Isn't iit?" he said, gesturing, as an even larger grin almost splitting his head in half.

"Welcome to Riften," I said, giving Njada a push on her shoulder. No one willingly approached anyone to make a deal here, unless they already knew they had the upper hand. You simply can't win in bartering against the locals.

But the Argonian was right. Even if we did have a way to sell illegal drugs, it isn't a rumor we'd want staining our reputation. And I doubted the Jarl would pay us for the skooma and moon sugar, after all, "it's not part of our contract," I said, reaching for the bag in Njada's clenched hand. "It's for the better," I said as she let go of the bag and I tossed it in front of the Argonian's feet. His eyes shone up in excitement, diluting even further as he enthusiastically lashed out and picked up the bag, clenching it to his chest.

"Well, well, well," he said with shining large eyes that, still seemed to look past us, "I suppose we've made a deal then?"

"Yes," I said as I reached for the leftmost satchel on my belt and took out my map to hold it in front of him, "Now show us,

It was quite the walk, took us hours. The sun was already high in the sky, well past noon.

Cragslane Cavern was deep in the birch forest north of Riften. I wasn't surprised the guards didn't know of the place or had accidentally stumbled upon it. It was so far into nowhere that there was no way even we would have found it without the ¨help¨ of that Argonian. But we were on the right track.

I smelled the smoke before we saw it, heard the camp before we saw it: a couple of tents raised around a fire, next to a cave. There were cages all around with large wolf-like dogs in them. Two men rose from the campfire and started walking towards us as we approached, their hands on the sword by their hips and suspicion in their eyes.

Njada moved her hand for her sword, but I quickly gestured to draw her attention and gave her a look not to.

"Who are you?" the closer man said as they came within talking range.

"Just here to earn some coin," I said. It wasn't a lie.

The Argonian had told us Cragslane Cavern doubled as a skooma manufacturing cave as well as a dog-pit fighting arena. And the caged dogs outside confirmed this was the right place. Disturbing, the things people with too much coin and time will gamble on for entertainment.

"You don't look like the regular gamblers we get," he said with suspicion in his voice, "Who told you of this place?" he asked, still with his hand on his blade.

"Some dirty lizard in Riften," Njada answered with her bitchy bite. She had been sour the whole walk. I had shrugged it off as her being her usual self, but it was clear by her tone that the Argonian had fouled her mood, she never did like being used.

"Let me guess…" he said with squinting eyes, "Puke-green? Overbite?"

"That's the one," Njada answered coldly.

"Hm," he let out with an annoyed look before mumbling to himself, "That damn Sleek better learn to keep his mouth shut…" he gave his friend a look before they both let go of their swords. "Well, I suppose you're here to gamble then? Entry is three Septims, just pay the guard on your way in," he said as he gestured toward the cave entrance and they both turned to head back to the campfire.

"Let's go," I said, walking past Njada.

The entry guard eyed us up and down as we entered the torch-lit cave. There were wooden beams along the walls and ceiling, holding the place up, and the deeper end of the cave looked man-made. Like everywhere, there were scents in the air: sweat, mead, animals, and, behind those, a discreet hint of that sweet smell. And distant echoes of cheering and growling could be heard.

"Twenty septims… each." he said with hard eyes.

"Twenty sep!— The man outside said three septims," Njada said, flaring up.

"Welcome to Riften," I repeated and she instantly gave me a sharp look. I actually found a bit of humor in her anger, she clearly hated the people here. I didn't blame her, it took me a while to learn ¨the dance of the Rift¨ as well: everyone sought to use you one way or another. And whenever they saw the chance, they took it.

"Sure…" he continued, "Leave your weapons and armor here and it's three," he said stubbornly, large arms crossed over his chest.

To me, he didn't look like much. But we better not start any trouble, we're only here for one man.

I placed my hand on Njada's shoulder and stepped forward to pay the man. "Pay your own share," I said as I dug through what little coin I had left, "Our pay will make up for it."

He gruffed satisfied and stepped aside as he was done counting the coin, opening the way for us.

I could hear the increasing sound of people cheering as we went deeper, and dogs barking and growling. The short tunnel opened up to a larger round cave room, a cavern. High ceiling and bedrock walls. It must have taken quite the amount of time and work to carve out this place.

There was a fenced-off area in the center of the room and a crowd of people around it, cheering and screaming curses at the two beasts fighting: a large black dog pitted against a gray wolf.

Njada looked at the gamblers with disgust as we made our way through the crowd: all of them too distracted to even notice us.

I had seen a makeshift bar built on a platform, past the crowd overlooking the arena, in the opposite corner of the cave when we had entered. And if one needed information, the bartender's usually the guy to speak to. For who else spoke to as many as he?

"What will it be?" the bartender asked, while he cleaned the bar counter of spilled mead, as I came up to lean one elbow on the bar counter. I threw a look over my shoulder: Njada remained behind me with her back against me as she watched over the crowd, "I have everything you can drink, sniff, smoke, or stuff up places I don't care to know about," he continued as I looked back at him.

He didn't look that old, yet the hair by his temples had turned gray.

I reached for one of the satchels on my belt and took out the note I found earlier. "I'm looking for Kilnyr?" I said looking up from my paper for his reaction.

"He's busy," the barkeeper said, turning around not to look at me as he grabbed a small glass and a bottle off the shelf.

"So he's here?"

He turned back and stopped as he looked at me with suspicion, eyeing me up and down.

"What's it to you?" He asked suspiciously as he placed the glass on the counter and poured up a strong-smelling drink. Hard liquor.

So he is here, I thought and turned my head to Njada. I gave her a confirming nod as she locked eye contact and a slight smile formed on her face as she took the hint, taking the shield off her back.

Discretion isn't a word in the vocabulary of a Companion. Besides, this is the Rift, where threats and barter are the same. And… sometimes you just feel like breaking stuff.

I turned back to the barkeeper, and as he lifted his glass and bent his head back to empty it down his throat, I reached over the counter and grabbing him by his neck, and violently bashed his head down onto the bar counter. A loud pained blare and the sound of glass shattering in his mouth as his face hit the counter.

"Where is he?" I asked calmly as I lifted his face off the counter, but all he let out was a wail and gargle as he spat bloodied glass shards and broken teeth. "No answer?" I steadied my grip and forcefully pulled him over the counter, throwing him onto the muddy floorboards behind me: better to face the crowd.

"Again, where is he?" I, again, asked calmly, standing over the barkeeper as he crawled up, turning on the ground to a sit while holding his bleeding face. He didn't answer, he only gave me a shocked expression and mumbled loudly, yet incoherently, into his blood dripping hand. I reached down and grabbed him by his collar and lifted him up, and threw him back first against the counter.

People had started shouting behind me, noticing ruckus. Some even straight out screamed and ran for the exit as I looked back. The pit-guards will be here soon: leave it to Njada.

I turned back for the barkeeper who struggled to stand, reaching for the counter for grip as he rose. I grabbed his wrist and bent it in a painful position, again he yelled in pain and turned to kneel back down for the pain.

"Again… where is he?" I asked, still with a calm voice, twisting his wrist further.

"H-he bagloom!" he squealed through his bloodied mouth, pointing frantically across the room with his other hand before begging me to release him. I could hear fighting behind me but ignored it.

The backroom, eh?

A hard twist and he screamed as I heard his wrist break and I let go. He clenched his wrist as he kneeled in front of me, and I grabbed the counter—sometimes you just feel like breaking stuff—and pulled as I slammed my knee hard into his face. His head shot back and banged loudly with a crack against the counter, like a ragdoll he fell to his side and remained there. No more groaning.

I had no more use of the man so I turned around toward Njada.

The guards were already here, shouting and screaming, and Njada was fending off three men at once, holding her shields with both hands as her feet were planted firmly in the ground and her torso and shoulders did more work in moving her shield than her arms did.

I knew she was a skilled shieldmaiden, but this was the first time I ever saw her in action outside of training. I'm impressed: the three guards might as well be dulling their sword against a rock.

I reached over my shoulder as I walked down the steps behind her, and drew my axe. One leg firmly in front of the other, axe to the side, arms and torso tightening in preparation for the swing. ¨Duck,¨ I said and swung my axe horizontally as she ducked, dangerously close above her head.

Skyforge steel swung hard, cut through the first man's arm, severing it, before it sliced halfway through the side of his torse, his body flew with the swing, stuck in my axe, and shot aside for the force as he slammed into the next man, and the third, and they all fell to the floor.

Njada quickly rose and moved forward, going for the closest man, and bashed him over the head with her shield before she turned for the third, punching the shield forward and knocking him to the ground before he had fully risen.

I stepped forward and tore my axe out of the corpse, sheeted it on my back, and moved to pass her for the backroom.

"What was that?!" she said out loud, giving me a big-eyed look as I walked past her, "I thought you said no killing?"

"Well," I said, making my way across the now empty cavern, "We're only here for one man."

A small, short tunnel led to the backroom. As I approached, I saw alchemy shelves, ingredients, and other tools I assumed were used to refine moon sugar into skooma. Vases and glasses and other things. That sweet smell was heavy in the air, a clear pink foglike mist pressing against the ceiling. More shelves, full with tiny skooma bottles, many times more than we found in the warehouse.

"You're never gonna take me alive!" a scared voice shouted as I had entered.

"You must be Kilnyr," I said as I spotted a small framed Dunmer across the room by some caged wolves. He looked frightened, clearly not a fighter. Purely an alchemist then?

The instant I took a step toward him he pulled a lever and the cages opened with a metallic clank, releasing two large wolves. Instantly they both charged at me, barking fiercely and showing teeth.

But wolves are all about alphas… and few wolves are more alpha than mine.

Wake up, more a feeling than an actual thought: the touch of a dark memory, Hear her laughter, and wake up.

The wolves suddenly stopped in their tracks as they met my eyes: that familiar feeling of adrenaline, muscles tightening, anger, further enhanced senses. Tense. It wasn't my eyes they met, but his yellow-glowing glare, threatening them from out of mine.

They shivered, whimpered, and turned, tails between their legs as they razed, no, fled in panic from true supremacy: recognizing the eyes of a wolf amongst wolves. Fleeing back into their cages to lay down in the hay, shaking fear, not even looking at us.

¨Every time you call for him, you'll think of me!¨ Even now, I hated how she had been right.

Kilnyr had the same look in his eyes as we turned our eyes on him, falling back and crawled away in fear until his back hit the wall. We walked toward him as he covered against the wall, shaking yet stiff, stunned by shock and muted by despair. There must be something truly primal in what he feels: pure dread for death.

He shakingly drew for air as we walked, "By… by Oblivion?!" His panic only grew as we came closer, "M-m-monster! " he let out in panic as we came to a stop in front of him. "No!" he screamed out again, covering, protecting himself with his arms as we moved our hand.

Why is it they always scream for their mothers when we reach for them?

Back to sleep, wolf, I forced as I dragged the whimpering Kilnyr along the floor by the back of his collar: feeling the anger soothe, fade, recede and dissipate.

Njada stood waiting by the two tied-up guards as I dragged Kilnyr across the room.

"That him?" she asked, looking at him as we came close.

"Sure is," I said. He let out a frightened whimper as I heaved and tossed him next to the other two. Believe it or not, he was crying.

"What did you do to him?" Njada asked as I kneeled down for some rope by the nearby barrels.

"Just gave him a scare," I said as I walked back and kneeled down beside him to tie his hands behind his back.

"No!" he screamed and his hands twitched out of my reach.

"Be quiet," I told and grabbed his wrists none the less. Tying them against his struggles and frightened complaints.

I could feel Njada's eyes burning into my neck as I tied him. It felt annoying. "What?" I said, turning my head at her.

Cross-armed, she stood with a stern look on her face, "The bartender's dead," she stated.

"Shame," I said sharply—low-life criminal won't be missed, is what I thought—and turned back to finish tying the man.

"What about these two?" she continued.

"Wake them up, we'll have them walk with us," I said as I moved to tie his feet with some length in the rope: enough for him to walk but not run.

"By Ysgramor," Njada sneered under her breath as I heard her walk away. As soon as I was finished with the ropes, I rose and watched as she headed toward us with a bucket.

"Get up!" she shouted as she poured the water over the two men. All curses, spit, and swears as they came to and realizing they were tied.

"Yeah, yeah. Get up!" she said over their curses and pulled one of the men up by his armpit, "You too!" she shouted for the other.

"I'll take this one," I said and nodded toward Kilnyr.

"So…" she started, ignoring the insults her captives sang as she turned her head toward me once they all were standing, "You coming back after this one?"

"Don't see much of a choice," I said as I stopped in front of Kilnyr, returning her look, "as you said: my father sent a letter."

"Then let's go collect our payment," she said and pushed one of the men to walk, holding the knot hard behind the other one's back.

"I'll be with you in a minute," I said and turned for Kilnyr: his frightened eyes quickly turned away as they met mine.

"Okay?" Njada said as they headed off.

For a moment, I simply stood over him. Menacingly. Watched him squirm nervously on his ass with his hands tied behind his back as I waited until the others had disappeared down the tunnel.

He looked up at me, biting through his fear as he forced out a slimmer of courage. Steadier eyes.

"I'll-I-I-I'll," he stammered out. So much for courage.

"You'll-you'll-you'll, you'll do what?" I mimicked to silence him, staring him down.

I reached over my shoulder and the fear returned to his eyes as I grabbed the handle. "No!" she whimpered, feet scratching the ground in an attempt to flee, as I drew my axe and turned it head-down in front of me. "No!" he repeated sharply in fright, looking away as I let the axe-head drop heavily to the ground in front of me. Holding the handle, I slowly went down to a squat: elbows on my knees as I let the handle lean on my right shoulder with my fingers resting on its bar.

I looked at him. Took my time. Watched him struggle to breathe. I watched him until wet eyes dared look back.

"Tell anyone what you saw earlier, and, by Ysmir, I'll come back to skin you alive."

I hope you liked the first chapter, drop a comment if you did!

I can't say how far off the next chapter is, but I want to release one chapter to my other fic (The Murder of Wayrest) before I start working on the next one.
Hopefully, it won't be that long.